Just after I turned eighteen I decided I was going to hike across the country, from the East coast, where I lived, to the West coast, where a cousin of mine lived. There was a long break between the end of the school year and the start of college so I had plenty of time.
I suppose I should mention I had plenty of time if I didn't actually hike all the way. Hitch-hiking would get me there a lot faster and with less wear and tear on my feet. For returning home I'd already decided that a bus would be a fine thing.
I'd like to point out that I was very careful about who I accepted lifts from. Couples were the go, preferably older couples. I'd also take a shot of the car and number plate and message it to my parents so they'd know who I was last with. I was also sticking to main roads. If anyone wanted to detour down a dirt track it would be without me.
I'd been hiking for a couple of hours in the hot sun when this car pulled up and I was offered a lift. The occupants were an older couple who looked me over carefully before offering. While chatting to them before accepting the ride I said I was just heading generally West at this point. I'd refine my potential lifts when I was a lot closer to the West coast.
I accepted the ride and we chatted as we drove, just discussing life generally. I was tired from that couple of hours hiking and the sun was warm and I drifted off to sleep.
It was still broad daylight when the woman nudged me awake.
"We're turning South here, dear," she told. "We thought you'd probably want to continue on your westward way."
I thanked them and piled out of the car and the situation I was in dawned on me. I was in the mountains, standing on a dirt track. I was looking around, confused, when the woman spoke up.
"Don't go panicking, dearie," she said. "Everything's fine. You just need to stroll down that road there and it finishes at Worthingville. The main road runs through Worthingville and you can continue West along it. From here to Worthingville is what? About a mile?"
She was looking at her husband when she asked those last two questions.
He grunted and nodded, saying, "Just under. Take you ten, fifteen minutes at the most."
I very politely thanked them for the ride and hitched up my backpack as they drove off. A mile wasn't too bad. Like he said, fifteen minutes would do it and it was still the middle of the day.
I set off, walking smartly along. I'd gone about half a mile when two men stepped onto the road from a side track and started heading along towards Worthingville. They were around twenty yards in front of.
There was nothing special about the two men. They were big and rather beefy, dressed in t-shirts and jeans. Just a couple of farm-hands heading towards their next job, was my guess. They also had nice bums, not that I noticed, being too lady-like to notice that sort of thing.
It turned out that they also had keen hearing. I accidentally kicked a small pebble and it made a rattling sound. Both men heard it and turned their heads to look back, saw me, seemed to go into shock, and halted, waiting until I drew closer.
I don't know what they found so surprising. I was what I considered reasonably pretty, with good hair, a damned decent figure, even if I do say so myself, and dressed in shorts and t-shirt for hiking. It was a warm day, after all.
"Who the hell are you and what are you doing on our road?" was the first question that came my way.
"I'm Anise, I'm walking to the West coast, and what do you mean, your road?"
"West coast? Bit off the track aren't you? This," the man gestured at the road, "is the Worthingham Drive. We're Worthinghams. That makes it our drive."
"If you say so," I said, deciding not to argue the point. If an idiot decides something let him keep his delusions. It saves a lot of breath.
"We do say so," said the other man. "Let me introduce ourselves. I'm James Cutler Worthingham, the Third, and this is James Cutler Worthingham, the Fourth."
I looked from one to the other. If there was a year's difference between them I'd eat the extra.
"Kind of young to be his father, aren't you?" I gently suggested.
"Brother," he replied. "Our father is James Cutler Worthingham, the First."
Right. Clear as mud.
"Am I right in assuming that you have an older brother who is James Cutler Worthingham, the Second?"
"No. Sister. An unusual name for a girl but not unheard of."
"Up until now it was unheard of by me," I muttered, but that sharp hearing caught me out again.
"Maybe," said James the third, "but our younger sisters seem to think the name's reasonable."
"Are you saying all your brothers and sisters have the same name except for the number?"
"Why not? When the old man screaming for one of us we generally know who he means and they do a runner until he calms down. It works."
It was official. I was walking past the local asylum and a couple of inmates had escaped.
